The Wonderful (and Slightly Exhausting) Month of May

May is a beautiful mix of memories, milestones… and a surprising number of things I’m apparently expected to attend.

The weather improves, native plants bloom, and suddenly everyone is outdoors pretending they’ve always loved fresh air. There are May Day rallies, community events, and—today—the Lake Oswego Lake Run, where people voluntarily run distances I wouldn’t drive without snacks.
   

my coping strategy

It all begins with my birthday on May 1—shared with two delightful “birthday twins.” I also hear from my insurance company, dentist, and financial planner, which feels less like celebration and more like a gentle reminder to stay alive and solvent.

May 2 is what I call my Heavenly Memory Day. It marks the anniversary of my husband’s passing after a long fight with prostate cancer. And in a move that was both thoughtful and just a little inconvenient timing-wise, he waited until the day after my birthday so as not to overshadow the festivities.
  

Heavenly Memory Day

In his final three days, we had Mr. Ralph at home in a hospital bed, facing the fabulous back oasis he created. Four dear friends (we were in Maui ... because he didn't want to die in the rain) gathered with us. We tied balloons to his bed rail, shared a Scotch toast, and the next morning, we released those balloons into the sky. It was simple, meaningful… and exactly the kind of send-off he would have appreciated.

And because May believes in balance, it continues with:

• the Kentucky Derby (big hats, tiny horses, questionable betting decisions),
• Cinco de Mayo (my annual excuse to eat my weight in chips and guacamole),
• multiple family birthdays (clearly August was a busy month decades ago), including my daughter on May 22,
• Mother’s Day (where expectations vary wildly),
• and Memorial Day, when we pause to remember what really matters… and also argue about whether it’s too early to put out the patio furniture.   

May holds everything—joy, grief, laughter, remembrance… and a calendar that suddenly requires a spreadsheet.

It’s a lot.

But somehow… it’s also just right.

Well ... except for the allergies ...

Be kind. I'm suffering!

THE RIGHT WORD

At my age (73 and 11/12, but who’s counting), I don’t get excited about much. But give me the right word? I will ride that high all day.

There are moments in life when I can't find the right word ... nothing fits. Not “annoying” as it is far more than just annoying.  Not “difficult.” Not even “what on earth is wrong with people?”

And then...just like finding the perfect pair of jeans ...I discover … the right word. Suddenly everything makes sense to my situation.

This week?  Martinet.

A strict enforcer of rules, often to an unreasonable degree.

Oh hello. Where have you been all my life?  This week a WLLO General (volunteer) sent me five emails before 9am screwing down on everything I did the day before. Like she got up on the wrong side of her broom.

The Joy of “Naming It”

This is my real theme: When I finally have the right word, I feel: calmer, validated, a bit superior (I'm being honest here)

It’s not just a word. It’s closure.

A few other words from this month ~

Luddite
Someone who resists new technology.  The annoying part is that they then ASK for us to look it up for them.

Dithering
Unable to make a decision.  It seems like we have several team leaders here at WLLO who have this this inability to commit.  Which often looks like some volunteers should do a task a certain way, but other volunteers are not required to do so.

Oblivious
Completely unaware.  Rarely responds when the situation calls for an email.  Then suddenly weighs in when they are not even remotely involved in a particular decision.  OBLIVIOUS.

Of course, once you start collecting “right words”… you realize some of them apply a little closer to home. (Like "intransigent" applies to me quite often, I'm sure)

At this age, I’m not trying to fix people. I’m just trying to understand them … preferably with a really excellent vocabulary.

I may not say these words out loud. But in my head? I am now extremely well-spoken.

AM I SO VAIN?

I asked myself this very serious, very philosophical question while standing at my bathroom counter, sleeves rolled up, staring at my forearms like they had personally betrayed me.

(photo taken on my bedspread rather than white countertop)

When did they get… freckly? Speckly? Spotty? When did they start looking like a topographical map of the Oregon Trail? And more importantly— why was I suddenly planning a weekly “Zap Night”?

This Sunday, I officially begin my new skincare routine:

• One Braun Silk-expert Pro 5 IPL

• One bottle of something called AmLactin (which sounds suspiciously like farm equipment)

• A retinol that warns me—gently—“you may experience mild irritation” (translation: buckle up)

And just to really round things out…

I’m buying my kid a red light therapy panel for her 40th birthday in May. For her, of course. Absolutely for her. I will simply be … testing it. Extensively. On my face. Daily.

Now before you judge me, let me explain. This is not vanity. This is… maintenance.

The same way we:

• color our hair
• wear readers in every room of the house
• and make a small, dignified noise every time we stand up

We adapt. Because somewhere along the way, something shifts. At 30, you look in the mirror and think: “Do I look okay?” At 50, you think: “Is that new?” At 70+, you think: “Well … THAT wasn’t there yesterday.”

And yet… here’s the thing. I don’t actually want to look 30. I don’t even want to look 50. I just want to look like me… but slightly less sun-damaged. Is that too much to ask?

(why yes! those are not my legs)

So yes.
Starting today, April 19, I will be quietly zapping my arms and hands. Every Sunday.

On Monday, I will be exfoliating.

On Tuesday, I will be renewing. And wearing little white cotton gloves to bed.

And at some point after May 22, I will be sitting in front of a glowing red panel like I’m trying to contact extraterrestrial life.

And honestly?  I’m kind of okay with it.  Because this isn’t about chasing youth.

It’s about taking care of the skin that got me here.

The same hands that:

• drove carpools
• held babies
• worked in the yard
• made dinners
• and now… occasionally hold a glass of wine while Googling “age spots vs something worse”

These old hands and arms deserve a little attention.

So am I vain?

Maybe.

But I prefer to think of it as selective enthusiasm for not looking like a parchment document from 1847.

And if you need me Sunday night… I’ll be in the bathroom. Zapping.

BE KIND. It’s Not THAT Hard ...

There’s a little sign making the rounds lately that simply says: “Be kind. It’s not that hard.”

And every time I see it, I think:
Well… theoretically.  Because if kindness were truly not that hard, we wouldn’t need the reminder printed on mugs, stitched on pillows, or—if I had my way—tattooed on a few foreheads.

I had one of those days.

You know the kind.  Where most everyone is being perfectly pleasant… and yet somehow, by the end of it, you feel like you’ve been gently steamrolled by a parade of good intentions.

No one is yelling.
No one is being mean.
But also? No one is really listening.

Kindness isn’t just about tone. It’s not the cheerful “Hi there!” or the exclamation point at the end of a sentence. It’s not the appearance of being nice.

Kindness is awareness.

It’s noticing that someone has already rearranged their schedule—and maybe not rearranging it again.
It’s understanding that “I’m not able to attend” is not an invitation to negotiate.  It’s recognizing that not everyone thrives in the same environments, at the same volume, at the same pace.

Kindness, it turns out, requires a tiny bit of effort. Not a lot. Just… a pause. And here’s the tricky part.

Most people think they’re being kind.

They’re organizing.
They’re including.
They’re following “procedures.”
They’re making sure everything is just so.

All very admirable. But kindness isn’t about how something looks from your side of the table.  It’s about how it lands on the other side.

I’ve spent a good portion of my life softening things.

Adding extra words.
Smoothing edges.
Explaining—oh, the explaining—so no one might possibly misunderstand.

But lately, I’m learning something new. Kindness also includes being kind to yourself. And sometimes that looks like this:

“No, I’m not able to do that.”

Full stop. No essay. No apology tour. No supporting documentation. Just… no.

The funny thing is, when you start doing that, the world does not end. People adjust. Or they don’t.
But either way, you’re no longer exhausted from trying to make everyone else comfortable at your own expense.

And that, my friends, feels like a small miracle.

So yes. Be kind. Truly kind.

Not just in tone, but in action. In awareness. In restraint. Listen a little more. Push a little less. Assume that if someone says “no,” they’ve already thought it through.

Because kindness isn’t complicated.

It’s just… apparently… harder than it looks.“Be kind. It’s simple. Just not always easy.”

P.S.  There are some days I have to make a post-it that says BE KIND and stick it on my laptop.

I have a question. A simple one. When did ordering coffee start requiring a translator, a glossary, and possibly a minor in chemistry?

Back in my day—(and yes, I hear myself saying that, thank you very much)—you walked into a coffee shop and said one of three things:

“I’ll have coffee.”
“I’ll have coffee with cream.”
Or, if you were feeling wild:
“Coffee. Black.”

And that was it. No follow-up questions. No clarifications. No emotional journey. You paid. You received coffee. You left.

Now?

Now I stand in line behind someone who orders: A tall half-caf oat milk matcha latte with an extra shot, caramel swirl, two pumps of vanilla, light foam, extra hot—but not too hot—in a grande cup.

In a grande cup.

Which is not, as one might assume, the same as a tall. Because of course it isn’t.

And here’s the thing—I’m not even mad at the person ordering. I’m a little impressed. Truly. The confidence. The precision. The complete mastery of a beverage I didn’t even know existed.

But I am a little nostalgic.

Because somewhere along the way, we lost something important:

The Coffee Only Line.

Oh yes. It existed. At a very busy Starbucks (and maybe others, but that’s where I saw it) in Beaverton, Oregon there was once a magical, glorious option:

A separate line for people who just wanted… coffee.

No syrups.
No foam debates.
No existential milk choices.

Just coffee.

You poured your own, put cash in the basket and within seconds—SECONDS—you were on your way.

It was a thing of beauty.

Meanwhile, today’s baristas deserve a standing ovation.

They are managing:

In-person orders
App orders
Drive-thru orders
And a growing list of drinks that sound like dessert met a science experiment

All while putting names on cups or a friendly "have a good day" and keeping a straight face when someone asks for “just a hint of lavender but not too floral.”

Honestly? They’re heroes.

And then there’s the generational divide.

My teen orders something called an affogato after dinner like he’s been living in Italy his whole life. I’m still over here thinking, what is an affogato? “Is it hot? Is it cold? Why is there ice cream involved?” He explained it to me after ordering.

But maybe this is just how things evolve. Coffee didn’t get more complicated. It got more… expressive. Personal. Creative. A little over the top?

Yes. But also kind of wonderful.

Still.

If anyone out there is listening… If any brave coffee shop owner wants to change the world…

Bring back the Coffee Only Line.

You will have a loyal following of slightly confused, mildly impatient, nostalgically inclined customers who just want a cup of coffee and five extra minutes of their lives back.

I’ll be first in line. The short one. With the simple order.

“Coffee. Just… coffee.”

WHEN SMART PEOPLE BELIEVE DUMB THINGS

You know that Facebook post. The one that pops up every few months like a bad rash: “I hereby declare that Facebook does not have permission to use my photos or personal information…”

And every time, people copy, paste, and hit “post” like they’ve just outsmarted a billion-dollar tech company with a paragraph written in ALL CAPS.  I usually scroll past with a little eye roll and maybe a muttered, “Oh honey… no.” But this week, I heard something that stopped me mid-scroll. A librarian told a friend it was true.

A librarian.

Now, if there’s anyone I trust to know the difference between fact and fiction, it’s a librarian. These are the keepers of the Dewey Decimal System. The guardians of quiet. The people who can find anything if you give them three vague clues and a last name that might be spelled wrong. And yet… here we are. In 2026, here’s the uncomfortable truth:  Smart people believe questionable things all the time. Not because they’re not smart. Because they’re human.

We want things to be true — especially when they make us feel a little more in control. That copy-and-paste post feels like action. Like we’ve drawn a line in the sand. Like we’ve told Big Tech, “Not today, sir.” It takes five seconds. It feels official. It even sounds a little legal-ish. And best of all? No research required. That’s the magic trick of misinformation. It doesn’t show up looking ridiculous. It shows up looking just believable enough — especially when someone we trust nods along and says, “Yes, I think that’s right.”

And honestly, I get it.

We’re all tired. The internet is loud. There’s always something new to worry about, fix, click, update, verify, or reset (preferably after turning it off and on again).
Sometimes it’s just easier to copy, paste, and move on with your day. But here’s the thing: Facebook does not care about your paragraph. Not even a little. They didn’t pause their board meeting. No one in Silicon Valley said, “Wait… JB has posted a declaration. Shut it all down.”

The only thing that post really does… is spread. And the more it spreads, the more it feels true. Which is how  smart people — even librarians — get caught in the loop. So maybe the goal isn’t to never be fooled. That’s probably unrealistic.  Maybe the goal is just to pause.

To hesitate for half a second before hitting “share.”
To wonder, “Is this actually how this works… or does it just feel like it should?” Because in the age of information, the real skill isn’t knowing everything. It’s knowing when to question something.

And here’s the part that truly leaves me… flabbergastational.  Even after people find out it’s false — they don’t delete it.  It just… sits there. Quietly. Incorrectly. Living its best little misinformation life.
I’m not saying we all need to issue formal retractions and hold press conferences on Facebook. 

But a quick delete? A tiny “Oops, this isn’t true”? That seems reasonable, doesn’t it? Apparently not. Because deleting it would mean admitting we got it wrong. And for some reason, that feels worse than leaving something inaccurate floating around for Aunt Linda and the entire neighborhood watch group to absorb as fact.So instead, we scroll on… stepping neatly over our own digital footprints like they don’t belong to us.

A disclaimer we really need is this: I promise to fact check before I post… and delete any post once I find out it is not true.

250 CANDLES

Preparing for America’s Semiquincentennial

The 4th of July, 2026, lands on a Saturday. A long weekend. A big birthday. Not just any birthday— 250 years of American independence. The Semiquincentennial. (Try saying that three times after a glass of wine.)

And it has me wondering… What will YOU be doing?
Because this feels like one of those moments worth planning ahead for.

The last time America threw a really big birthday party, it was 1976. The Bicentennial. And I remember it like it was yesterday. My first hubby, my 16-year-old sister, and I piled into our tiny yellow Dodge Colt station wagon — the kind that looked cheerful and harmless but had absolutely no business crossing multiple states in July.

Without air-conditioning. Of course not. When having the windows down didn’t work, we’d buy a block of ice, wrap it in towels, and take turns dipping washcloths into the melting puddle—wiping our faces, our arms, honestly…anything that needed cooling down.

The three week trip had this corn-fed girl from Ohio completely in awe. National Parks that didn’t look real. Visiting Pike’s Peak. Wineries (very educational). Breweries (also educational). And San Francisco Chinatown—where I discovered flavors that changed my life. (dim sum, green tea ice cream)

We were glamorous in our own way. Mostly camping. One night sleeping in the car. Every third day, we’d splurge on a cheap motel— the kind where the towels were thin and the water pressure was questionable …but oh, those showers felt like luxury.

And then there were the surprises. We “accidentally” stumbled into:A garlic festival in Gilroy, CA (where the air itself had personality)(yes, they had garlic ice cream)An artichoke festival in Castroville (who knew vegetables could throw a party?) We gorged.

Souvenirs? I bought a ring at every favorite spot for memories.

No reservations.
No GPS.
No agenda beyond: keep going.

And maybe that’s what I remember most. The feeling that something big was happening — not just in the country, but in us. We were part of it. Rolling across America with melted ice, damp washcloths, and wide-open eyes.

Here we are again. 250 years this time. A quarter of a millennium of messy, complicated, resilient, hopeful history. And I can’t help but think … Maybe this is our moment to do something memorable again. Not necessarily a cross-country trek in a non-air-conditioned vehicle (we’ve evolved, thankfully), but something intentional. Something that says: I was here for this milestone.

A backyard gathering?
A family trip?
A WLLO neighborhood bash? (You KNOW I’m thinking about it…)
A simple toast with people you love?

Whatever it is…

Plan now.

Because if there’s one thing I learned in 1976, it’s this:

The best memories aren’t the perfectly planned ones. They’re the ones where you show up, stay curious… and don’t mind getting a little melted along the way.

So tell me…
Where will you be when America turns 250?

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